"The Elder" by Lucy Green

He eats blueberries from a cottage cheese container,
bare toes peeking from a red cast
propped up by the footrest of his wheelchair.

This is the land he has known from boyhood.
The lake still reflects the steely clouds and cobalt sky.
The ferns unfurl on the dappled forest floor,
As they have every spring of his life.

Birdsong laces the breeze that ruffles the grass,
And he remembers hunting with his slingshot,
Plucking clean the lifeless wings,
Nibbling roasted meat from fragile bones.

Today the children sit inert in front of the TV,
They drug themselves unconscious.
They carry guns, and when they kill,
They kill each other.

The wind carries the smell of water,
And he remembers rowing to The Narrows,
Fasting on sacred ground, weakened with hunger,
Until creation filled his spirit with truth.

Today the young men are restless.
They look for purpose in gangs,
They seek relief in alcohol,
Their visions are induced by the flashing lights of the casino.

The taste of fish seasons the air,
And he remembers the walleye his grandmother prepared
Alongside the venison his grandfather provided.
Poverty never kept them from having enough.

Today everyone eats fry bread and potato chips.
They drink Coca-Cola and beer.
Their bodies inflate, their blood bears poison,
And their organs self-destruct.

The clouds cast contours on the grass,
And he remembers shadows on the wall of a wigwam,
Half imagined and half real,
As his grandmother told winter stories with her hands and lips.

Today, his people live in houses with locks on the doors.
They tell their children European stories in a European tongue,
Or they leave the storytelling to Hollywood,
And the young ones forget their ancestors.

A gap in the clouds admits the warmth of the sun in an instant,
And he remembers the heat of the rocks in the lodge,
The sensation of sweat and steam beading on his skin
As the pipe was passed from hand to hand.

Today, so many shun the sacred ceremonies.
The black book and black robe have made them fear the ancient ways.
Why do they dread the language of their hearts
when their children lie dead in the churchyard?

The blueberries are sweet on his tongue,
Just as they used to be when he picked them by the bucket.
A smile adds wrinkles to his creased face,
And the sadness passes from his eyes.

“There’s something in the air that’s coming back,” he says.
“I’m not sure what it is yet, but it’s good for everyone.”